


Paris, July 1937

by Spookymulders



Category: The Bane Chronicles - Sarah Rees Brennan & Cassandra Clare & Maureen Johnson, The Infernal Devices Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: (i think), Activism, Canon Compliant, France (Country), Friendship, Grief/Mourning, How Do I Tag, Loss, Philosophy, Post-Book 3: Clockwork Princess, Post-Canon, mention of Holocaust, poorly researched historical fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:26:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28835574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spookymulders/pseuds/Spookymulders
Summary: After Will dies, Tessa goes to Paris to live with Magnus Bane while she works through her grief. Pre-WWII, political tensions are high, and Tessa and Magnus get sucked into the world of mundane intellectualism, philosophy, and of course, political discussions in quaint French coffee shops, all while the world hangs in the balance.
Relationships: Magnus Bane & Tessa Gray, Tessa Gray/Will Herondale
Kudos: 4





	1. Foyer du Français Antifasciste

**Author's Note:**

> One of my tags for this piece is "poorly researched historical fiction." Not all of this piece is going to be accurate—I’m not an expert on the books or on Cassandra Clare’s lore, so for example, I don’t actually know what powers Tessa has other than Changing, and I don’t care enough to do research. I’m taking a lot of historical and technical liberties. Is Magnus' apartment a real place in Paris? No. Do I know French? Only a little. Were people outside of Germany really worried about the Nazis in 1937? I can’t imagine that many were, unless they were quite politically active, or Jewish, or both, so I move forward with the assumption that the mundanes Tessa and Magnus interact with are in those categories. I know little about the Holocaust outside of Germany and Poland, and this piece is more for fun than anything else, so I thank you if you're reading despite the inaccuracies. I just have a feeling that Tessa and Magnus would have been involved somehow. Finally, this is my first fanfic, yes, ever, so... thank you and apologies in advance. <3

Paris, July 1937.

Tessa Gray Herondale stood before an apartment building so tall and narrow it seemed to sway in the wind. Once a noble and expensive hotel, now its white paint was fading, and artists and writers, philosophers and revolutionaries, lived there for the cheap rent and ease of congregation. Whispers of Germany could be heard as she walked the halls, as these intellectuals itching for activism, afraid of real action, discussed the fates of acquaintances, letters they had expected but never received from cousins, friends, beliefs passed from one person to another supposedly originating from people they all admired, but had Hannah Arendt really said that? Tessa brushed past them unseen on her way to room 717. She had learned to glamor herself long ago so she would not appear to be walking alone when she was on the arm of her husband, Will, a Shadowhunter, who almost always chose to be invisible to mundanes. Had almost always chosen to be invisible to mundanes. Tessa stopped and put her face toward the wall, composing herself. She cried so easily these days, though if she encountered anyone it was not as if they could see her tears, or that she was there at all. She had been married to Will fifty-eight years, in love with him before that, and he had been gone less than three weeks. No one, she knew, expected her to recover anytime soon. But James and Lucie… 

Tessa knew it was cruel to leave her children so soon, for them to lose their mother right after their father. But she had promised she would visit them again, though it would hurt to see them growing old. They already looked older than Tessa, in her natural form, did—she hadn’t aged a day past twenty, and her children were in their forties, both with gray streaks in their hair, shallow lines in their faces she knew would deepen unbearably. The only deaths that would hurt more than Will’s, and Jem’s eventually, were her children’s. She did not know what to do about the rest of her descendants: whether to hold them at a distance, that she would not feel this misery every time one of them died for the rest of her unending life, or to stay with them, guide them, be a grandmother and a great-grandmother and a great-great-grandmother, caring for people even her grandchildren would not live to know. Perhaps there was a happy medium, but now all she could think of was Will. She would watch Will’s family, the family he had made her a part of, grow, forever, and Will would never see it.

“Mrs. Herondale.” Magnus Bane opened his door not a moment after she knocked on it. “Looking not a day over seventy, as usual.” But despite his humor, her old friend was somber, his eyes sad. Will had been one of the only Shadowhunters Magnus had ever loved. He opened his arms and Tessa, with relief, fell into them.

Magnus was Tessa’s warlock-mentor. He had been the first warlock she’d ever met, and, given her association with the Shadowhunters of London, the kindest. Many warlocks and other Downworlders did their best to avoid the Nephilim, but Magnus put up with them, even when it exasperated him. Will had certainly exasperated him, but Tessa knew Magnus had been a friend to Will for more than her sake. He had seen the good in Will before most people did, before even Will did, before Tessa was certain of it herself. Of course, it did not hurt that Magnus had helped Tessa discover, over some years of exploration, that she had magical abilities other than shapeshifting: she could glamor herself, make herself appear older (which had come in useful, as she might have been mistaken for Will’s granddaughter had she not grayed with him), and even cast some of the same spells Magnus could. When Will was on his deathbed, Magnus had arrived, though it had been years since Tessa and Will had seen him, to say goodbye. He had taken Tessa aside in a corridor of the Institute and handed her a slip of paper. “My new address in Paris,” he said. “I have upsized. I now have a second bedroom which serves as a painting room when I have no guests, but would be much happier if someone made use of the bed.”

“You don’t mean me?” Tessa had asked in surprise. “Magnus, I cannot leave the Institute. Will needs me. James and Lucie need me.”

“Stay as long as Will lives, of course,” Magnus said. “But after that, do you think the Enclave will want you here? You will not be married to a Shadowhunter anymore. They will have no reason to treat you as anything but a warlock.”

“A warlock who has been their loyal ally for sixty years,” Tessa said. Her voice grew heated. “Who has borne and raised Shadowhunting children, now members of the Enclave themselves. James and Lucie—”

“Are at an age where many adults lose their parents?” Magnus said. “Have families of their own? Are quite capable of running the Institute and raising their children themselves? Tessa,” and his face softened upon seeing the hurt in hers. “You are a mother and grandmother, and you have been nothing but devoted. The choice is yours, and I did not mean to tell you to leave your family. I meant only to offer you a place to go, if the time comes when you cannot bear to stay.”

Now here Tessa was, in Magnus’ second bedroom, a beautiful view of Paris out the window and a painting of that view on an easel next to the window. The painting was… abstract. Magnus dabbled in art more for the amusement, Tessa thought, than to engage any innate talent. Still, he was smart to find ways to occupy himself. His life was long and could not always be exciting. Tessa’s first love was books and she had found that between her husband and friends, raising the children and helping Will with the constant drama of Shadowhunters, she had not needed any other hobbies—indeed, there had been times, especially when the children were young, that she and Will had scrambled for time to read, sometimes arguing over who would put James and Lucie to bed and who got to stay in their armchair in the library. But for the majority of Tessa’s marriage, evenings had found her and Will curled up with books, in adjacent armchairs by the fire or a couch just large enough for the two of them or even their bed, reading by candles and witchlight. Books had never failed her, had never failed to be the language she and Will fell into when alone together. The past few weeks, though, she had been too restless and grieved to read. She needed something to do, something not domestic, not taking care of children or the Institute or—though she had not minded taking care of him, would have done it forever—Will. She needed an adventure, or at least a change of scenery. So she had come to Paris.

“You don’t think—people will say we’re lovers?” she asked Magnus, in horror, as it dawned on her that she had fled to live with a man—a man of her own kind, no less—right after her husband had died. Though it was a long time ago now, she could remember what people had said about her marrying Will mere months after she’d been engaged to Jem. That had been as different a situation from this as could be, and yet, Shadowhunters and Downworlders alike loved to gossip about Tessa, half Shadowhunter, half demon.

“I’m sure someone will think of that,” Magnus said. He sounded unworried, but then, he cared less what Shadowhunters thought of him than Tessa did. He wasn’t related to any of them. “But your family and friends know that is not the case, Tessa, and the opinions of others are of no use to you.”

Tessa sighed. “I suppose not.” She sat on the bed, which was merely a mattress raised off the ground by a simple wooden platform. She didn’t mind. True, she was used to the grandeur of the London Institute, having lived there for most of her life thus far, but she didn’t want anything to remind her of it now. She wanted as different a living quarters from the Institute as she could get.

She looked up at Magnus, who leaned against the doorframe. “What are you doing for money?”

“The same as always. Odd jobs. Some for mundanes, some for Nephilim. The Night Children and the Moon’s Children rarely call on my services.”

“And the Fair Folk?”

Magnus shrugged. “Who knows anything about the Fair Folk? I’ve tried to sell them my paintings, but they have no appreciation for art.” He made a half-gesture at his easel, then looked back at Tessa. “If you are worried about money, I assure you we will have no trouble finding you clients in such a busy city as this. Even in this building, there are people who would kill for your services.” Tessa thought of the posters she had seen racked up in the lobby: FOYER DU FRANÇAIS ANTIFASCISTE. Of course, if there were any mundanes among whom Magnus fit, it was these. “I don’t suppose the Clave let you get away with any of Will’s money?” Magnus asked.

Tessa bristled slightly, not meaning to. “I told Will not to leave me anything. All of his earthly belongings have gone to James and Lucie and their families.” But because he was Magnus, she added, “I could not bear the humiliation if they had not allowed me to keep what my husband gave me. I have some of our books, our wedding rings, mementos, but everything else belongs to his family or the Clave.”

“They are your family as much as they are Will’s, Tessa.”

“The Clave does not care,” she snapped. “The Clave does not care that I carried James and Lucie inside my own body, that I devoted myself to their proper Shadowhunter upbringing. They do not care that I am half-Shadowhunter. It is as you said, Magnus. I have magic, therefore I am but a warlock to the Clave.”

“Just because you have been involved with them for so long does not mean they are allowed to define you,” Magnus said. He would not lose his temper with her, she thought, even if she lost hers with him. Her wounds were too fresh and Magnus, though he could be difficult, was sympathetic. She lay back on the bed, and after a moment of quiet, Magnus left the room, pulling the door shut so gently it barely made a sound.

But Tessa did not actually feel tired—or rather, she did not feel sleepy, though she did feel too weary to argue with Magnus. She sat back up and her eyes caught the desk pushed to a corner of the room, on which Magnus had piled supplies—papers, pens and pencils, paint with brushes that had not been cleaned or stored properly. Tessa almost smiled. She pulled out a mint-green piece of paper—only Magnus would have so many stationery colors to choose from—and a pen, and sat back on her bed with a book to press down on, the desk too cluttered for her use. Her French was rusty at best, and she did not entirely know what crowd she was getting into. But the people who could employ her would not mind. She tacked up her own poster among all the others downstairs, and waited.


	2. Crabs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tessa returns to the apartment one morning to find Magnus in one of his usual improper entanglements—with two world-famous philosophers.

The streets were quiet as Tessa wandered through Paris in the early morning. She didn’t bother wearing a glamor; so few people were out, and none of them spared her a second glance, for everyone was hurrying to work or university. When she was young, walking anywhere alone would have seemed improper for a lady. Tessa was glad for the freedom. It meant she could come and go as she pleased. It meant that, on mornings like this one, when Tessa suspected Magnus had a guest or five in his bedroom across the hall from hers, Tessa could be gone from the apartment while Magnus ushered his guests out the door, and she never had to know a thing about it. She did know, of course. It was why she left before even checking to see if Magnus was awake; she had learned, in the few months she’d been in Paris, to make herself scarce rather than exchange pleasantries with Magnus’ overnight guests. She sat in one of the coffee shops, let herself be charmed by the famous French aesthetic, the tiny tables and the cup and saucer in which she was brought her tea—though she was, or at least considered herself to be, American, Tessa had never liked coffee—and paid with francs, which felt novel, especially because they were her own. Will had never kept anything Tessa wanted from her, of course, and as far as he was concerned, money that belonged to him belonged to her. Still, it was Will and not Tessa who drew a salary from the Clave, Will and not Tessa who was trusted with the finances of the London Institute. Now Tessa had a small red pouch full of money she had earned, and though it felt strange, doing magical favors for mundanes, Tessa knew it was how most warlocks made their livings. She knew she wanted to do something more meaningful, save lives like Catarina Loss, or delve into the Silent Brothers’ archives and be a scholar—she thought of Brother Zachariah, standing with her over Will as he breathed his last breaths, and felt sick—but for now, this would do. She reached in her bag and pulled out a silver pocket-watch with the initials WOH engraved into its front. She had given it to Will for a wedding anniversary—twentieth? Thirtieth? She no longer remembered. It was one of many sentimental objects she had allowed herself to take, selfishly perhaps, but of all the reasons to be selfish, she thought, taking things to remind you of your dead husband was a good one. The watch used old clockwork, something of a joke between Tessa and Will and the others who had been there so long ago. Tessa had asked Henry to build it, and she had animated it to be unbreakable, or at least as unbreakable as her magic could manage, and to emit pulses of heat when demons came near, like a Cecily’s red necklace, which had come from Magnus initially. The watch informed her that it was nearly 9:00. Magnus would certainly be awake, and by the time Tessa got home, he would be alone in the apartment again. After all, the mundanes with whom Magnus amused himself had their own lives and jobs to get to.

The outing, though leisurely, had tired Tessa. Her feet dragged on the stairs, her steps not even making an echo as they normally would. She had not tired this easily in many years, not since her pregnancy with Lucie. How terrible, she thought, how wrong it would be if she were pregnant now, with Will dead and James and Lucie old enough to have their own children. An aunt or uncle years younger than their nieces and nephews. She wasn’t pregnant, though, only weakened by her grief. She would build up her energy again. That was why she had come to Paris. For now, though, she longed to crawl under her covers and make another effort to read. She had recently picked up a collection of Dickinson, who Will had scorned because she only wrote about death, but Tessa was eager to read her, especially if it might be cathartic now. Better to weep over the welcoming pages of a book than alone in the locked chambers of her mind, which reverberated and twisted around itself if not given new material. But Dickinson, and all thoughts of Tessa’s exhaustion, dissolved when she unlocked the door and it swung open to reveal the scene inside the apartment.

Magnus fancied himself an amateur interior designer. Their living room was colorful, the walls nearly vanished under all the art he’d hung—not just his own, but famous paintings, sketches by his friends, even posters he had found charming or inspiring enough to frame, taken from bulletin boards around the city or vintage ones bought for too much money. He rearranged the furniture often. His most recent acquisition, found in an alley and moved to the living room with a snap of his fingers, was an orange couch Tessa thought hideous. On that couch now sat Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre, sipping from Magnus and Tessa’s mismatched mugs, looking about at the eclectic living room.

Tessa stared.

She had met important mundanes, and of course she knew that plenty of mundanes were aware of the world of magic, Downworlders, Nephilim, demons. If it hadn’t been for a mundane getting too close to that world, she would never have met Will, or for that matter, Magnus. Still, to see two of the great thinkers of this country sitting on her couch—which to her knowledge had never even been cleaned—was a shock. She only knew who they were because there were pictures of them in every bookstore in Paris, the philosophers who sat side by side together every day to write their grand works, who until recently had been mere schoolteachers. Not mere, she thought; education was everything. Especially now. Magnus had a copy of Madame de Beauvoir’s only novel, and he had prodded Tessa to read it on more than one occasion, but her appetite for books had not returned. She had begun to worry it never would. “You cannot jump to such conclusions after a few months,” Magnus had admonished. “You have many lifetimes ahead of you. You must learn patience, or they will feel very long indeed.”

If her childhood and marriage had been Tessa’s first lifetime and the second began when she fled London, she thought that the second would live up to the first indeed—in terms of being embarrassed by Magnus Bane. She gave a nod to the two mundanes on her couch. At least they were clothed, she supposed. “Hello,” she said in French. What did one say when one came home to the guests of the man with whom one lived platonically? “My name is Tessa. I live in the second bedroom.”

She wanted to squirm under their gazes—Monsieur Sartre merely wore a curious expression, and behind thick glasses he seemed harmless. Madame de Beauvoir, who was taller than her partner even sitting down, had a severe face that made Tessa shrink. Perhaps it was her faltering French, but she knew she had sounded as awkward as she felt. “You are also a warlock?” Monsieur Sartre asked, with an open expression not unlike one Henry Branwell used to wear, which had no animosity, no self-consciousness, and no sense of propriety, only a desire for knowledge.

Tessa knew there was no polite way to ignore this question, but she asked, “Where is Magnus?”

“Ma cherie bichette!” Magnus appeared in a pink dressing gown, which seemed to amuse de Beauvoir and Sartre. “I had meant to be dressed before you came home, Tessa, but I simply could not decide upon an outfit for today.”

“It would not be the first time you spent the day in that ridiculous robe,” Tessa said. Despite her dry tone, she was relieved. Magnus was better than she at handling mundanes. He would know how to ask them to leave.

“Pardon me,” Magnus said to his guests. “This is Tessa Herondale, my housemate—and I do mean mere housemate,” he said with a wink at Sartre, who chuckled. “Tessa, meet Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre, founders of the new group Socialisme et Liberté, among other accolades.

“How do you do,” de Beauvoir said, the first time she had spoken. “You would be welcomed at our next meeting, if the political news in Germany the last few years interests you.”

“Merci,” Tessa said. “The rest of Europe should certainly keep our eyes on Germany. One does not know what Hitler will do next.”

De Beauvoir produced a scrap piece of paper and leaned over the coffee table to scribble on it. She looked as if she was going to say something, but Sartre stood up rather suddenly, and made his way to the nearest wall, his wide eyes on the floor. He put out a hand to steady himself on a photograph of a nearly-naked man whose face was turned away from the camera.

“Crabs,” he said faintly.

Magnus and Tessa exchanged horrified glances. “He hasn’t given you crabs, has he?”

Madame de Beauvoir shook her head. “Jean-Paul hallucinates from time to time,” she said. “A bad experience with mescaline, some years ago. He is not referring to a venereal disease—he is quite healthy, I assure you—but to actual crabs. In his mind, they are scuttling all about. It will stop soon.” She put a soothing hand on her partner’s back. They looked odd together, Tessa thought. De Beauvoir commanded the respect of everyone around her, rather like Charlotte Fairchild had for all the years Tessa had known her. Sartre, in comparison, looked rather like he belonged in a circus, though Tessa knew—everyone knew—he was brilliant.

“Tell the crabs to come along, dear,” de Beauvoir said. “We have work to do.”

“Very well,” said Sartre, who had apparently gotten used to the crabs after his initial shock. “Now, get in a line, and follow me, and do not cause trouble as we walk.” He walked through the open front door, de Beauvoir following at a distance so as not to step on the imaginary crabs.

“Au revoir, Magnus,” she said as Magnus escorted her to the door. “I trust we will see you at next week’s meeting.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Magnus replied. He kissed her cheek and she swept out of the apartment. He leaned against the door after he shut it and caught Tessa staring at him. “I apologize for the intrusion,” he said. “But when one has those two in one’s apartment, one must invite them to have breakfast. I thought you might like to meet them. They are not our run-of-the-mill guests.”

“No,” Tessa said, “I suppose not.” The paper de Beauvoir had left behind on the coffee table caught her eye. She picked it up. An address, and a message: "Do not allow fascism to prevail."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tessa and Magnus getting involved with anti-Nazi activism? In my good Shadowhunter fanfic? Yeah that sounds on-brand. Also, obligatory historical note: Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre were probably not really famous by 1937. From what I know of them, their work wasn’t prominent until the early 1940s, and their socialist group, Socialisme et Liberté, did not exist until 1941, and then did not exist for very long. For the sake of this fic, Socialisme et Liberte has already been founded in 1937, and de Beauvoir’s first novel, She Came to Stay, has already been published—neither of which really makes sense since WWII hasn’t started yet, but just go with it. Also, speaking of Jews, which we only sort-of were, props to you if you caught the Angels in America reference. Until next time :)


End file.
